


Time Forgotten

by sevenpercent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual mild slash, Fluff, M/M, Memory Related, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loses his memory and rediscovers his relationship with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fic. If anyone wants to brit pick, I'd be grateful. Please let me know if you find mistakes, I'll fix them!

“Hey Sherlock, there you are.” A familiar voice cooed softly. Sherlock struggled to open his eyes, the focus going in and out like a camera with auto focus on a moving target. The edges of his vision were hazy, and the usual sharp edges of life around him were blurry.

But the voice was familiar. Friendly, concerned, and oddly comforting to someone who found few human interactions comforting. Emotions were abhorred by Sherlock Holmes, most of all those felt by him. But this voice did provide him some comfort when all his other senses seemed to be failing him. He didn’t consider Greg Lestrade a friend, but Sherlock didn’t consider anyone a friend.

His pupils adjusted to the light gradually, and Sherlock struggled to clear his mind. Focus on facts, he told himself. He could always count on facts to keep his mind ordered and running properly.

“How are you feeling?” A simple question. His head throbbed in time with his heart, diffusely, over its entirety, but more concentrated above his left ear. Absently, he raised a hand to his head, and a spike of pain shot from a tender swelling right where he knew it would be. A wave of nausea rushed through him, and his stomach heaved weakly. He did not answer, fearing if he opened his mouth he could not control the efflux of bile from his throat.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax. Exactly where was he? The odors of bleach, disinfectant and air freshener intensified his nausea. Sound penetrated from a waiting room, sounds of panic, impatience, mumbling adults and babbling children, sounds of doors opening and closing, of alarms ringing and monitors running. His weight rested horizontally on a thinly padded gurney. Obvious, he deduced, the hospital. But why? His memory was hazy and his thoughts were disturbingly slow. He could not think.

“Mr. Holmes…” A new voice, one that he did not recognize. Deep tenor, with a faint Indian accent, but clearly he has been in London a while. Sherlock opened is eyes to match a face with the voice. The man who stood before him was holding a computer tablet, scrolling thru information between glances at Sherlock. His neatly cropped dark hair matched the expected complexion of someone with that accent. Well dressed in a tasteful suit and tie, and wearing a white coat to complete the uniform of a doctor; around his neck there was the requisite stethoscope. “I’m Dr. Patil. How are we feeling?”

Sherlock, never one to pass up the opportunity for a biting remark, replied, “I don’t know how you feel, but I’m managing just fine.” Lestrade couldn’t help but smile and chuckle lightly at the tone of the comment. Dr Patel glared at Lestrade, and Greg just shook his head “That’s Sherlock” he confirmed.

Dr. Patil took a pen-light out of his pocket and shown the light into Sherlock’s eyes, first one side, then the other. “Follow my fingers.” Sherlock sighed heavily. “I’m OK.” He answered insistently. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Sherlock was having trouble focusing, but he knew statistically that doctors were most likely to hold up two fingers, so that is what he answered. “Who is the Prime Minister?” This question was too much for Sherlock’s patience. “What does it matter to me who the prime minister is? It’s not important!” Greg couldn’t stifle his laughter. The doctor glared at Lestrade again. “Sorry doc, that is definitely Sherlock!”

“From what I understand,” Dr. Patil continued, “you received quite a sharp blow to the head. I would like to keep you for observation and do a CT scan on you, to check for evidence of swelling or bleeding.” He spoke like a man who was used to dictating orders and having them followed.

“No.” Sherlock said simply, though he knew that the recommendations were standard procedure. Sherlock hated hospitals, hated the forced confinement, with strangers coming unannounced into your room at all hours, touching you with no regard to personal space. He hated waiting for tests, waiting for so-called experts to interpret tests that he likely could interpret himself more accurately. He did not want someone running tests to see how his brain was working, when he knew perfectly well that something was not right.

It would pass. He did not need or want strangers interfering.

Dr. Patil tapped his pen against his tablet several times and rolled his eyes. He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “Mr. Holmes, I can not force you to stay, but it is in your best interest to stay and to get a scan. You have quite a large lump on your head from a…” he turned and looked at Greg to supply the information. “A wood plank.” “…from a wood plank. You may feel all right now, but clearly you have suffered a concussion. You did loose consciousness for several minutes. If it would help, you could call a close friend or family member to be here with you?”

Sherlock scowled at him. He did not have friends, and there was no way that he was going to call his brother Mycroft, the pompous git, to come and hold his hand. He neither wanted nor needed that. This was none of his brother’s business.

Sherlock had known something was wrong, but other than the headache and nausea, quite common with a concussion, he hadn’t pin pointed what it was. He had not even realized that he had a concussion until the doctor mentioned it, and he instantly knew it was true. That should have concerned him, but it did not. He had no memory of the event, what ever it was, that caused the concussion. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure what the last thing he remembered was. He thinking was still too hazy.

Greg’s voice broke the silence. “ I've already called John. He is coming back early from his medical conference in Dublin.”

He didn't even know who John was, although Lestrade called him without consulting Sherlock, as if it was the obvious thing to do. And Lestrade didn't use a surname. Deduction- this was someone that Sherlock knew fairly well. Why couldn't he remember?

The doctor turned to Lestrade. “Would you talk with him please? I will be back in a short time.” Greg smiled, but as the doctor left the room, he put his palm to his forehead and shook his head.

Wasting no time, Sherlock swung his feet over the edge of the gurney, righted himself, and inched his way to the floor. He had to pause as the blood shifted in his body, causing his head to pound and his vision to narrow momentarily. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked at his feet, thankful that he still had his shoes and socks on. He didn't think he would have been able to bend over to put them on.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock would refuse to any help proffered, so he simply stood himself. “Are you sure you are okay to leave?” Sherlock just glared at him and replied by walking towards the curtain that had offered minimal privacy from the chaos that surrounded them. His stride was shorter and slower than normal, but they made steady progress to the door. Two young women who were seated in a waiting room watched as they passed by. Lestrade half expected someone to try to stop them as they left against medical advice, but no one paid them any heed. The glass door to the car park responded to their presence, and they walked into the gentle rain that showered down on them.

“I’ll give you a lift home.” Lestrade told Sherlock as they approached a dark newer model sedan. Lestrade pushed a button on an electronic key, the locks sprung open, allowing access to the inside.

Sherlock was relieved to find that he was going home with Lestrade again. The last he could remember he was back on the streets, living on whatever couch or floor that he could find. Lestrade had let him stay in the spare bedroom of his house before that, on the condition that Sherlock stayed clean. That had worked for about 5 months, until the old addiction called to him in the form of his old college mate Victor. That had been a mistake. A few nights out, a rush that lasted a few hours until the pain and withdrawal set in, and Victor disappearing again, as he had done countless times before. He remembered the disappointment in Lestrade’s eyes when Sherlock had returned to Greg’s house trembling, obviously still feeling the effects of the cocaine he had given himself. In those few days he had lost his home, the one person who had been willing to look out for him, and his access to crime scenes all at once.

Even though he could not remember how, he was glad that somehow he had cleaned up again and once again had Lestrade as an ally.

“Idiot!” Greg shouted, breaking hard as a cab pulled out in front of them. The change in momentum caused Sherlock to lurch forward and grab the console above the glove box to stop himself from hitting it. “Oh, sorry, Sherlock. Bloody cabbie.” Sherlock didn't say anything, but the shot of adrenaline had aggravated his headache.

His thought’s interrupted, Sherlock asked “Did you see what happened? Not the cabbie.” He figured this was open ended enough to solicit some good clues about what he, Sherlock, had been doing that landed him in A & E.

Lestrade considered. He had had his share of concussions, and he understood the amnesia that sometimes occurred with it surrounding the event. “I called you in to help with the Billing’s case, the child’s kidnapping, you know. Sherlock, I don’t know what you were thinking, but you were examining the front yard, the front porch, the windows, you never even made it into the house. Then you stared at the ground and walked right over to the next door neighbor’s house and went in. Most of the guys were staring at you, so I ran next door to catch up with you while I shouted for you to wait. Thanks for not listening to me, by the way, not that I expected you to.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. Sherlock said nothing.

“You left the front door open, and by the time I got there I heard the back door slam, so I ran through the house, following you, and I found you on the ground in the back yard, a wood plank next to you. He must have caught you off guard. But I didn't actually see anything. But I figured out that the neighbor had done it, both the kidnapping, and…” Lestrade searched for the right word, but failing, he continued, “…you.” “Obviously.” Sherlock interjected. Lestrade just looked at him. “And sure enough, the men found the kid in an upstairs bedroom. How you knew it was the neighbor I’ll never understand, but you were right as usual.” Lestrade waited, hoping that Sherlock would take him through his reasoning and deductions. When no explanation came, Lestrade just added lamely “And that’s it.”

Sherlock nodded. Nothing sounded familiar. He did not remember being at a crime scene. He didn't remember the chase, or the strike that stopped him so abruptly. He didn't even remember getting up that morning. It was difficult for him to pin point exactly what the last thing he remembered was. It was as if time had spun around in his mind and rearranged itself in some random order.

Lestrade slowed the car, and pulled to the side of the road. Sherlock was puzzled. He looked out his window and saw an awning over a shop that read Speedy’s Sandwich Bar and Cafe. Two steps led up to a glass door, on either side of the door there were full length glass windows with jars of jellies, pastas and crisps displayed. Were they picking up dinner? 

The power to the engine was turned off, and Lestrade looked over at Sherlock, expecting him to bound out of the car. When Sherlock didn't move, Lestrade’s brow began to furrow. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be at his normal pace, Lestrade chastised himself, he did just receive a concussion. “Okay, here we are, Baker Street. Do you have your keys?” Sherlock wasn't certain, but he fished into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. Lestrade gently took them out of Sherlock’s hand, and pulled the driver side door open, straightening himself. Sherlock mirrored the action. 

Lestrade strolled up to 221 and sorted through the keys on the ring. He paused, looking at one distinct key which looked very much like a key to handcuffs. Then he inserted a key, and turned the tumbler. The door sprung open. Greg turned around, and motioned Sherlock to enter first. “Up you go.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock looked around the foyer. An arched mirror hung in the entrance, framed by a 2 inch gilded trim, with a small Victorian style table below it upon which a set of tawny women’s gloves rested. A short hallway led to a door with the letter “A” on it. There was a staircase that led downwards, and one that went up. Sherlock looked at Greg, and noted that Greg’s eyes were focused up the staircase.

None of this prompted any memories for Sherlock. He realized that this was not Greg’s residence, since Greg did not have had his own set of keys. This is where Sherlock had been staying then. 

A wave of excitement rolled over Sherlock as he realized this was just another puzzle that he could solve. A very different kind of puzzle. It was as if he had been transported forward in time, he just didn't know how far ahead. His frustration at having his brain, his memories, abandon him, prevented him from admitting to anyone that he could not remember. That, and not wanting to be in a hospital. So the logical thing to do was to investigate what he could, and deduce the rest. It was likely, after all, that his memory would return. But this was a unique challenge.

Sherlock took the steps slowly, not wanting to raise his blood pressure too quickly. The nausea that he felt early had subsided, but it likely would return again. His headache, however, was growing, and he wished that he didn't live in an upstairs flat. Lestrade was right behind him, and as they reached the top, Lestrade inserted a key and turned. The door swung open. “Just relax, and call me if you need me. John should be home soon.” Sherlock just nodded, and Lestrade turned, and started down the staircase. He stopped several steps down, and looked back at Sherlock, as if were going to say something, but he just closed his mouth, and continued on.

Sherlock closed the door, and studied the room around him. Sitting room, he said to himself, 2 occupants, taller one in that right hand chair in front of the fireplace, shorter one to the left. The right hand chair frequently has feet on it, with the full weight on the seat. He grinned. My chair. Sofa, frequently slept on, or two people sitting side by side, judging by the indentations, meals frequently eaten on the sofa.

He turned his attention to the mantle over the fireplace. To the left, his skull. He recognized his skull, remembered when he pilfered it from the anatomy department’s storage closet at university. He had accessed the building’s card reader system and unlocked the main door on a Wednesday night. No alarm system, the fools. It made it so easy. A quick dash through the halls, and all he had to do then was pick the lock on the storage closet. They had not even installed electronic door locks to all the doors, a simple three tumbler lock. He remembered how pleased he was that he had picked the lock in under fifteen seconds. Then the prize, the contents of the storage closet.

He had gotten a brief look into the closet during class one day, when the professor removed several femurs for a class discussion on bone to height ratios. It had fascinated him. Shelves of bones, glass jars of varying sizes with floating bits of tissue, charts and models of the digestive system, the cardiac system, the reproductive track. That was all he saw at a glance. That night, when he had hours to look, though he dare not actually stay that long, he found drawers with teeth, separated by whether they were incisors, canines, premolars or molars. He saw partially reconstructed skeleton, bits of hand bones wired together, boxes of histopathology samples and slides, stained by various methods to facilitate microscopic identification of the tissue. He found glass jars with embryos in the early stages of development. Animal embryos most likely; in the early stages it was impossible to tell the species. And, on the top shelf, near the back, he saw his skull. He knew immediately he wanted it.

He didn't break into the closet with the intention of stealing anything. He just wanted to see what was in there. Perhaps he would “borrow” some of the samples for his study, rotating the samples so that the lot of them wouldn't be missed. But he hadn't meant to keep any of them. Well, until he held the skull. Then he knew he needed to have it.

A vibration in Sherlock’s pocket startled him, and returned him to 221. His right hand reached into the pocket, and he palmed the phone that he hadn’t realized was there. He didn't recognize the phone, but he was impressed with the design and the screen. Definitely a step up from what he remembered. The screen lit up, and some text appeared. All it said was all right? He looked at the number it came from, but it mean nothing to him. He clicked on an option titled info and the name John appeared.

John. He thought back. Lestrade had said that name, earlier, at A & E. His head had been quite clouded at the time, too foggy for him to even question what Lestrade had meant. Who was John, John who was returning from Dublin because Sherlock was concussed? Returning home, their home? Here?

A momentary shiver of panic swept over him. Was John his boyfriend, his husband, his flatmate? It was unlikely he had developed a relationship of a personal kind with anyone. Sentiment, emotion, touching….unlikely. Flatmate was possible, but flatmates don’t return home early in the event of personal crisis. He couldn't be a friend. Sherlock didn't have friends. Victor, at Uni, had been the closest to a friend that he had ever had. But Sherlock was done with Victor. No friends, not again. Was he a handler or overseer of sorts, employed by Mycroft? Someone to keep him out of trouble, away from his addictions, from old friends. Someone who would report back to Mycroft. That almost made sense. Handler then… it must be.

How had Mycroft gotten him to agree to that? Someone to watch over Sherlock, to keep him clean. In exchange for what? For a place to live of his own (as much as living with someone else was actually on his own), not at Mycroft’s house at least, perhaps to get him out of rehab? Mycroft was not above blackmail. A handler in exchange for freedom, release from a rehab hospital? It seemed the most likely explanation. But he had little data. It was foolish to make hypotheses and deductions in the absence of data. Better to wait for some more facts.

The thought of figuring out exactly who John was gave him a bit of a thrill. The excitement of the puzzle, of the unknown. He knew how to read people though, so it wouldn't remain a mystery for long.

Sherlock considered a response to the text. The text he received from John was brief, impersonal, not formal, and was not signed. The best response would be to mirror that as close as he could.

All right –SH

Sherlock let the phone slide off his fingers, back into his pocket, and continued his examination of the flat. On the mantle was a knife, impaling some letters addressed to him. His eyes wandered to the kitchen, much more interesting than the sitting room.

A compound microscope, newer model, stood at the edge of the table, a dried up slide on its stage. Several more slides were scattered around the base of the microscope. Sherlock resisted the temptation to try to identify what the slides were; there would be plenty of time for that later. Conical tubes, partially full of various liquids, sat in a rack in the center of the table, one of which had dribbled down its side and pooled, leaving a thick sticky residue. Three, no four, books, were stacked on each other, each bookmarked repeatedly with empty envelopes or the edges of note paper.

His gaze continued around the room. On the counter by the microwave were several glass jars with a powdered substance in them, unmarked. Next to them were stacked file folders, leaning precariously to one side, threatening to topple at the slightest provocation. A p-1000 pipetteman and a box of pipette tips lay on the cabinet on the other side of the fridge, along with a coffee pot, and a sugar bowl.

Sherlock paced forward, and opened the refrigerator door. On the bottom shelf there was a human foot, with several ulcers on the plantar surface of the big toe and the heel. And a glass jar containing what looked like salivary glands from a reptile or amphibian; he’d have to examine them under the microscope to be certain. The rest of the contents did not interest him. Food was necessary, yes, but it often got in the way of an investigation by slowing his mind, wasting energy on digestion.

Sweeping his eye around, the most obvious conclusion that Sherlock came to was that his footprint was very clear in the kitchen turned lab. This was his domain, where he spent a significant amount of time. The other man, John, stayed clear of this room. Not helpful in solving the John puzzle.

Come to think of it, there was little data in the sitting room about John either, other than where he sat. Sherlock’s books and pictures, Sherlock’s violin, Sherlock’s skull, Sherlock’s knife pinning correspondence to the mantle, Sherlock’s everything, but no evidence of John. How could a man live somewhere, if he did live here, and not have personal possessions, not leave a mark of who he was? Exceptional, and very intriguing.

If Sherlock let himself think about it, he could convince himself that this was what a handler would do, how a handler would live. Employed by Mycroft, he would need to be discreet, anonymous, blend into the crowd, leaving little personal evidence from which to be traced or blackmailed. Anthea, Mycroft’s PA, had been with Mycroft for years, but Sherlock knew next to nothing about her. He did not know her education, her background, where she lived, or if she had any family. Well, he did know one thing: her name wasn't actually Anthea. It was not the name she was born with; likely she had identification and documents indicating she was Anthea, but her credentials would be untraceable. That is how Mycroft worked. So it was possible that John, evidenced by the way he lived, could be an operative of Mycroft.

Sherlock continued past the kitchen, his eyes darting down the hall and into the next open doorway- a bathroom, then, at the end of the hall, likely a bedroom.

But he never made it that far. A door slammed somewhere close, and footsteps were heard getting louder and louder, until they stopped just outside of the flat’s entryway. A faint sound of metal on metal and the door opened. Sherlock padded back into the kitchen and watched the door. He was helpless. Anyone that he didn’t recognize could come through the door and he would not know if they belonged or not. It wouldn’t be the first time an opponent tried to ambush him where he lived. Sherlock considered rifling thru the kitchen drawers to find a knife, but decided against it.

In walked a well dressed sandy haired man, pleasant looking, but ordinary and inconspicuous. An overnight bag slipped off his shoulder. Either military or ex-military, Sherlock thought. He was at a medical convention, definitely doctor, not medic. The suit was tailored, accentuating his athletic build. Keeps in shape. Was drunk last night, but not overly so. Sherlock’s eyes went down to the man’s shoes, well worn, not especially expensive. This was at odds with his suit, and with Sherlock’s theory that he was employed by Mycroft. Mycroft was very particular about appearance. But maybe that didn't matter for “field workers.”

At the same time that Sherlock was evaluating John’s appearance, a strange sensation started growing inside of Sherlock. He had no recognition of the face, of the person per say, but a sense of familiarity, warmth, of, if he would have admitted to having emotions, of raw lust. But Sherlock didn’t recognize it as such because he denied that he would have any such feeling. He just knew that something felt different about this man, and he wasn't sure what.

Sherlock suddenly considered that his theory may be wrong. John, if this was John, was one of five things, a husband, boyfriend, friend, flat mate or handler. He had already concluded that he could not just be a flat mate. It was ridiculous to think he was a husband, or boyfriend. Or was it? Mummy had been trying to introduce him to appropriate matches for several years. Perhaps something had been arranged by Mummy? Certainly he did not meet John on his own. He simply did not do friends, period. But there was that strange feeling he felt, that he could not identify. An arranged match would account for John’s presence, and his apparent concern necessitating his return from Dublin. An arranged partnership would make Sherlock feel…what?...uncomfortable? Strange at the very least.

Not being one to ask a question when a simple test would prove the fact, Sherlock simply walked right up to the man, placed his palms on the man’s shoulders, and started to kiss him on the lips. Apparently not expecting this attack, the man stepped back a half of step, loosing his balance just a bit.

Sherlock had moved too fast. With his fast pace came an elevation in blood pressure and heart rate, an escalation of pressure in his head, and a rapid surge of bile up through his throat. Without knowing it, Sherlock’s feet rapidly carried him through the kitchen, down the hall to the commode, and when next he was aware, he was evacuating his stomach into the toilet, heaving several times, until nothing more came out. His breath came rapid, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The throbbing inside his brain had intensified. He was thankful that the light was still off as he was certain that extra stimulus would have initiated another round of heaving.

After several minutes, Sherlock risked standing upright. He shifted his weight from his knees back to his feet and slowly rose. In the mirror he looked pale and gray, definitely not one of his best days. But John’s reaction, not one of expectant open arms, had told him what he wanted to know: not husband or boyfriend.

Sherlock slowly carried himself back to the sitting room, careful not the repeat the dynamics that upset his circulatory system, then his digestive system. He looked at John, who was now sitting on the sofa behind a full spread of newsprint. The paper was lowered, and John uttered “I never had anyone react like that after they kissed me.” And he smiled in such a genuine way that Sherlock was taken aback. He had not expected that response. Sherlock estimated there was a 12-16% chance of reciprocation (boyfriend or husband), a 36-42% chance of being punched outright, a 58-64% chance of being shoved, pushed back or immobilized, a 58-72% chance of being scolded or admonished, an 8-13% chance of being ignored completely, and only a 1-2% chance of having the reaction that John had. This must be Mycroft’s man, he thought, thoroughly prepared, and now accustomed to the eccentricities of Sherlock. He was intrigued by John. It wasn't easy to surprise Sherlock Holmes, and John had definitely done that. “Where as I usually have that effect on other people.” Sherlock quipped back.

“So, what did they say at A & E? Did they scan you?” 

“Dull.” 

John took a deep breath, then sighed slowly. “I ought to know better than to ask you two questions and expect you to answer either one of them…what did the doctor say at A & E?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and plunked himself down sideways in his armchair. “Does it matter, they are all idiots.”

John was searching his face. Sherlock knew that he was assessing his eyes, scanning back and forth from one pupil to the other, looking for any signs of irregularity or slow responses.

“Concussion.” Sherlock finally admitted. “But I don’t need a scan.”

“Was that their opinion or yours?”

Sherlock looked away, not saying anything, although he was enjoying the banter. One corner of his lip turned up.

“Right then.” John folded the newspaper and put it in front of him on the coffee table. “You’re still being an arse, so there can’t be too much damage to your massive intellect.”

Sherlock was quite impressed with Mycroft’s man. Usually people were intimidated by him, didn't want to engage him in conversation. Sherlock was too blunt; he spoke the truth, mostly, unless it served him better to lie. But John, John was not intimidated at all. Frustrated, obviously, but he wasn't backing down. He interested Sherlock. For once his brother was not completely worthless.

John stood, gathered his overnight bag from where it had been dropped, and opened a door that Sherlock had not had time to investigate yet. The echo of shoes growing distant told him there was another set of stairs that John had just climbed. Second bedroom Sherlock thought. He closed his eyes and hoped his headache would ease soon.

The next he knew, there were noises in the kitchen, the kettle being filled, a clink of metal on metal, two soft knocks as mugs were placed on the counter top. John leaned out of the kitchen “Tea?” “Yes.” Sherlock noticed, with some disappointment, that John was now dressed in jeans, which fit him nicely, but also a baggy beige jumper, which concealed his pleasing form, and washed his complexion out.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he had dozed for a few minutes or an hour, but the pressure and thumping in his head had diminished slightly. Now that he had the mystery of “who John was” solved, he needed another puzzle to occupy his mind. He peered around the room. A computer (his?) rested on an end table next to the sofa, plugged in and charging. Sherlock rose, closed the distance to the laptop and lowered himself onto the side of the sofa nearest the plug. He slid the lock to the left with his thumb, and a prompt for a password appeared.

Two hours later Sherlock gained access to the information within. He wasn't sure if she should be pleased that it only took him two hours to hack into a genius’s computer, or concerned that his password was hacked in only two hours. In the end he decided to change the password to something more obscure. Glancing up, he saw John typing on his computer with two fingers, terribly inefficiently.

Clicking on an icon on the side of the screen, Sherlock brought up a screen, and selected “browsing history”. A list of URLs appeared. Most recently he had been accessing information about bufotoxins of frogs (Bufo marinus), The British Journal of Psychology (an article on epidemiology and trends of non-fatal self harm) and the British Journal of Criminology (an issue on terrorism and criminological perspectives) and several addresses that looked like they linked to the CCTV system. He clicked on one of those addresses, but it was password protected. He would work on that password later.

Faint footsteps came up the stairs outside the flat door. Four quick raps on the door and a “yoo hooo, boys” in an elderly woman’s voice sounded. The door knob turned.

“I brought you some biscuits, thought you might be hungry. Just this once, mind you, I’m not your housekeeper…” the gray haired petite woman sang, holding out a plate piled high with pastries.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, rising to meet her and collect the plate. The treats were freshly baked, the redolent aroma surrounding the treats. Mrs. Hudson beamed at him.

Sherlock stared, his pulse quickening, a surreal feeling overwhelming him. “Mrs. Hudson…” It almost sounded like a question.

“Oh Sherlock, dear, I do hope you are feeling better. That nice man, Mr. Lastrade, said you hit your head.”

Sherlock recovered slightly. “Yes, thank you.” She turned and continued to gossip with John. What had startled Sherlock was not that Mrs. Hudson had brought them biscuits. It was that Mrs. Hudson was apparently their landlady.

Sherlock thought back to when he met Mrs. Hudson, arranged by Mycroft. The one and only time that he did “unofficial” work for Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson had been married to a man who, unknown to her, had killed three women. Her husband seemed perfectly normal during their three year marriage, until he got sloppy and killed a co-worker of his. He fled to America, and while there killed a bounty hunter who had tracked him. He was finally caught in Florida. Sherlock went to Florida, and worked with officials there to make sure the man was convicted, and received the death sentence.

What Mycroft didn't make clear was that Mrs. Hudson had been working for MI5 or MI6. She was actually the perfect operative, a dear-little-old-lady, meek, timid appearing, very motherly, doting over anyone who would let her. Even Sherlock was taken in, for a short time, although he denied it later. 

Mycroft couldn't risk being officially involved in any investigation linked to his operatives, but he needed that man convicted, discredited, and ideally, dead. That man would threaten the cover of Mrs. Hudson and several other agents. So Mycroft enlisted the help of Sherlock, with satisfactory results (high praise from Mycroft).

Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson. She was definitely very sweet, nurturing, charming, and sympathetic. But she was also cunning, intelligent, and a highly trained agent. And she was living in the flat right below him.

Sherlock tried not to stare at the two colleagues chatting away amicably. He wasn't surprised that Mycroft would be watching over him so closely; there was nothing new in that. What he couldn't understand was why he, Sherlock, would have agreed to this arrangement, living with John, and above Mrs. Hudson. Usually he tried to thwart Mycroft’s attempts at familial espionage. Early on Sherlock had learned how to look for bugs, cameras, and suspicious people of any type. He could spot an operative in a crowd in just a few seconds, even in a picture. And don’t try to lie to him, he could always read the subtle signs, the body’s betrayal, when someone was practicing deception. Elevated heart rate, a glance in the wrong direction, an unusual or abnormal twitch or hand gesture, slight perspiration, or one of many other obvious manifestations of discomfort.

But now Sherlock had a handler, John, and John had back-up, in the form of Mrs. Hudson. There must be a good reason why Sherlock would agree to this…

For a brief moment Sherlock wondered if he were also an agent. But the thought was so ridiculous that he expelled it immediately.

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand at him, catching his eye briefly, and gently closed the door behind herself as she left. Sherlock wasn't even aware that he was still standing, staring unfocused at the door, until John uttered “Umm, Sherlock, are you all right? You look a bit dazed.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Headache? Have you taken any paracetamol?”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip curved up. “Do you have anything stronger?” John looked fondly at him for a moment before he padded down the hall and returned with his hand fisted, grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and returned to Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Paracetamol.” John admitted. Sherlock opened his palm and the tablets were deposited. Slapping his palm to his open mouth, Sherlock swallowed the pills, then followed them with the glass of water. He handed the empty glass back to John, allowing his hand to brush against John’s for a just a moment too long, just to see what John’s reaction would be. He got none. Very interesting, Sherlock thought, then he saw John’s eyes dilate slightly.

Sherlock knew that people were attracted to him. Occasionally someone was fascinated by his intelligence and quick wit. That attachment usually didn't last long. Sherlock had little patience for people who were not as intelligent as he was, which, since he was a genius, was almost everyone, and he was quick to point out peoples deficiencies quite directly. There was that girl in the lab at St. Barts, for instance, Molly, who was obviously in love with him. He used her when he needed something, flashed a smile, whispered a small complement, it didn't take much to get her to do what he wanted. Usually it was to procure a lab sample, or the use of a piece of equipment. She could do analysis quite quickly when he asked sweetly. But he felt no need to charm her when he didn’t need anything. Rather he would quite pointedly acknowledge her poor taste in clothes, a physical imperfection, or some mistake that she made. Why she continued to be drawn to him he did not understand. But it was useful.

Most people, even if initially drawn to him, would quickly, just as strongly, be repelled by his detached and unsympathetic observations and deductions. They did not understand why his experiments were important, experiments which obviously required human tissue samples, whether whole limbs, organs, or just small parts. They did not realize the importance in keeping emotion and sentiment as far away from facts as possible to avoid bias and unnecessary variables. They saw his ordered thought process as abnormal, his intelligence as freakish, and his honesty as socially unacceptable. Their opinion didn't matter to Sherlock.

But Sherlock found that John’s opinion did matter, and he was pleased that John showed a flash of arousal when they touched. John obviously had excellent self control and discipline (as most soldiers, and Mycroft’s best agents, would), and maybe did not even acknowledge to himself that there was any attraction there. But Sherlock was certain there was. He told himself that John’s attraction could be useful, just as Molly’s attraction was useful.


	3. Chapter 3

Rest is the usual prescription to recover from head trauma, but Sherlock was not listening to John’s advice on the matter. He spent most of the night working through computer passwords and examining recent documents and spread sheets that he had made, not to jog his memory, but because he was bored and needed some work to distract him. John had gotten up several times through out the night to check on Sherlock, to make sure he could be roused from any sleep he was in, but it was unnecessary, as Sherlock had not shut his eyes once.

When sunlight started streaming through the sitting room windows, John came out of the bathroom, his damp hair combed back, freshly shaven with a towel wrapped around his waist, and sat down to read the mornings newspaper. Sherlock looked up from the data he had been examining, and cocked an eyebrow. He appreciated the well defined muscles of his chest and arms, but his eyes rested on a large scar that covered most of his left shoulder. It was lighter than the surrounding skin, but was not recent. There was a starburst pattern to it, radiating out from the center, uneven ridges punctuating the explosive nature of it. Sherlock wondered how John got the scar, but did not ask, as he probably should know, and still did not want to admit that his memory was impaired.

Sherlock continued to drink up the image of John’s body, aware that his body was responding to the sight of the bare skin. Concern crept into his mind- he did not feel attraction, emotions, desire like this. He had mastered control over his body years ago. Mycroft taught him growing up that sentiment was a flaw, that caring was not an advantage. He was right, of course. As much as he didn't like to admit it, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was actually the more intelligent of the two of them. And growing up he idolized his older brother, although they had grown apart after Mycroft moved away to go to university. 

His recent concussion must have weakened his control. He would regain it. He must.

Sherlock’s phone chirped on the table, rescuing him from his introspection. A text message, from Lestrade.

Body found regents park can you come?

The newspaper in the other room crumpled closed, and a voice asked “A case?”

Sherlock looked up, then ignored the question. 

Sherlock considered the wording of the text. A request, polite. Quite different than he remembered, last time, when he was staying with Lestrade, when Lestrade would hold a case over his head like a carrot. Stay clean, or there will be no cases. When he was told to stay out of the way, and not touch anything, and don’t say anything to the others (just because they couldn’t understand that his comments were truthful and direct, not rude). Lestrade was not doing a favor for Sherlock, he was asking for one. Not demanding, not come to regents park or I have a case that might interest you but pleading can you come?

Sherlock wondered when the switch had happened, when it switched from Lestrade doing him a favor to Lestrade asking for a favor, imploring him for help. He wished for a moment, for the first time since his concussion, that he could remember what ever it was that was escaping his memory, because he found that he liked this feeling, this sense of power, of being able to say no, and have someone plead with him for help.

“Are you going to take it then?”

Sherlock’s thumbs started working.

20 minutes He hit send.

Apparently John had answered his own question; he sprinted to the stairs to dress, returned within a minute in jeans and jumper and was bending down, forcing his feet into his shoes. He righted himself and looked expectantly at Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed his coat, fluidly driving first one hand, then the other into the sleeves, and spun around, coat flaring behind him, reaching for the doorknob, then bolting down the stairs two at a time.

Once outside, Sherlock set a rapid pace towards the park. “We’re going to walk then?” John uttered. “Obviously.” Sherlock retorted. He hadn't even thought about it. Of course he would walk, he walked everywhere. He didn't have money to waste on a cab….at least he didn't think so. He hadn't actually looked in his wallet. His trust fund had been frozen the first time he entered rehab, control of the fund handed over to Mycroft. He refused to ask for money from Mycroft, instead bunking on acquaintance’s floors, making money playing cards, occasionally solving problems for people. Mycroft, of course, would have given him money, but it would have come with a price, a high price which Sherlock was not willing to pay.

But that was before, before his concussion. He wasn't actually sure of the state of his finances right now. He had a decent wardrobe, not flashy, but good quality, so he had access to some money, or Mycroft provided his clothes. There were some pieces of laboratory equipment that he would like to add to the kitchen, so his funds weren't limitless. Perhaps access to money was somehow contingent upon his having John, and living at 221. That might be part of the explanation of why he would acquiesce to having a handler (or two?).

Flashing lights in the park drew them to the crime scene. There were several marked met cars, Lestrade’s dark sedan, and an ambulance. Officers, plain clothed and in uniform, were milling about. Lestrade eyed John and Sherlock’s progress towards the yellow caution tape, and lifted the obstacle for them to duck under.

“Um, yeah, thanks for coming.” Lestrade marched them past several technicians, towards a prone figure, face down on the grass, the side of his head terribly disfigured, with blood tangled thru auburn hair. Sherlock did not need any prompting. He set to work, intensely focused on each minute detail of the body and the surrounding lawn. “Much of the evidence has been trampled already.” Sherlock admonished. Lestrade glared at him.

“What are the facts?” Sherlock enquired.

“We don’t know much. Got a call from a jogger that there was a body in the park. No identification on him. We left his just as we found him. The forensic team hasn't collected any evidence yet.

Sherlock slid his hands into nitrile gloves, snapping them lightly as they snugged to his hands. Several minutes went by as Sherlock examined the ground, peering from several different angles and directions. He danced around the figure, appeared to sniff at its face and mouth, flopped himself on the ground to examine the body more closely, sometimes scrutinizing thru a magnifying lens. He peeled off the gloves and looked at Lestrade. Lestrade looked to John, then back at Sherlock again. “Don’t you want John to take a look?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why would I want John to take a look?” Sherlock snapped, exasperated. Lestrade turned away, and slapped his palm over his eyes, shaking his head. John’s mouth dropped open, then he shut it, quietly adding, “Yeah, okay, I guess I’m done here.” And John stomped off, back in the direction of Baker Street.

Lestrade turned back around and just stared at Sherlock, unsure what to say.

Sherlock wasn't sure why Lestrade wanted his handler to look at the body. What would that accomplish? Lestrade had his own men for that. Besides, there wasn't anything there that John could tell Sherlock that Sherlock hadn’t already seen. 

However, Sherlock found that he didn't want John to leave. It didn't make sense. Why would a handler leave so quickly? He should have just stood back and remained silent. Instead, he spouted an emotional response, and left. Very unprofessional, as if he had more invested in the situation than just a job. Mycroft would not tolerate that, would he? Sherlock was, of course, very difficult, but any agent with any experience would have handled that better. Maybe Mycroft had different rules when it came to handling Sherlock?

John interested him, and surprised him. And he wanted John to stay.

“John, wait!” John stopped, but he did not turn around. He just stood still right where his feet had carried him, as if frozen in time. Sherlock hastened to John. He wasn't certain what John was upset about, but he would somehow convince him to stay, he had to.

He could apologize. He wasn’t sure what to apologize for, but it was a tactic that worked well in the past with other people. He usually did not understand what he did wrong, or why someone was troubled, but an apology was an accepted standard of remedy. “John, I’m sorry, please come back.”

John turned and looked at Sherlock and considered. John was used to being insulted by Sherlock. Used to being insulted, ignored, or having eyes rolled at him. He couldn't count the number of times Sherlock had called him an idiot. He thought about the times Sherlock told him he missed everything of importance, or that he saw, but did not observe. He was used to that. But being dismissed outright, without even being able give an opinion, that was new, it was unacceptable.

He was a doctor, a soldier, had been in the RAMC. He had valuable insights and experiences that Sherlock would never have. The ways that different people thought, the emotions involved. Sure Sherlock was brilliant, undoubtedly so, but John brought a different level of insight to the puzzles, the human element.

Being a doctor, John understood that a concussion could cause some irritability, certainly headache, memory loss around the event. He tried to convince himself that that was the cause of Sherlock’s outburst. But some doubt lingered. There was something so denuding and crippling about being repudiated by your best friend, the man you admire the most in the world, a man who is perspicacious, whose opinion you regard more highly than anyone else.

“Tell me why I should.”

Sherlock thought quickly. Keep it vague, he told himself. “I shouldn't have said that…the concussion… I’m not myself.” He waved his hand around his head airily.

John understood that that was as close to an apology that he was likely to get. “No, you were rude and thoughtless. Which is exactly who you are.” But he turned around and ambled back towards the body.

Lestrade extended his hand towards the body, palm facing John. “Help yourself.”

John bent down, examined the body, felt the temperature of the body, looked at the fingernails, and at the wound to the skull, peeled the eyelids up and glanced at the eye and lids, and sniffed at the mouth. “Right… been dead about 6-7 hours I’d say….death caused by a blow to the head, looks like blunt force trauma, nothing sharp or pointed. I don’t smell any alcohol, drugs could be involved but you’d have to verify that with a tox screen.”

Sherlock grinned delightedly. John surprised him again. That was mostly because he didn’t think anyone could get facts correctly. The forensic personnel rarely got it right, that’s why he preferred to view the body himself. But John had a keen eye, and logical mind.

Lestrade, seeing the glee erupting from Sherlock, implored, “Okay, give me…”

Sherlock loved this part. “Victim is in his mid forties, a veterinarian, specializes in large animals, mostly horses and cattle, single, but dates often, and lives on a property with Sisymbrium irio, also known as London rocket, death was caused by a single blow to the side of the head, but did not occur here. This is a secondary scene.” Sherlock knew when he had an audience, and also knew how to be dramatic, so he just waited. Finally Lestrade pushed. “Alright, but what can you tell me about his murderer?”

Sherlock’s mouth curved up, first on one side, then it grew to include both sides. “There is no murderer.” Lestrade looked at the body, clearly convinced that it could not be an accident with no weapon and not enough blood.

Sherlock walked around the body, his coat caught in the breeze, billowing out behind him. He spun and looked at Lestrade. “You won’t be able to convict anyone for murder. But there is an accomplice.”

“I swear to god Sherlock, if you are just making this up…”

“Heavy denim, thick sole boots, mud around the edges. Boots have been washed, but not completely. You can see where there are many different types of soil stains on the leather, so, occupation is one where he stands in many different places, outdoors. His hands are strong, and the skin is rough, but there are no calluses, fingernails short, almost painfully so, works with his hands, but not with tools. There are hairs on his jacket, some are thick and prickly, others thinner, with a distinct texture to both. Hair from cattle and horses. Large animal veterinarian, obviously. No wedding ring, no mark where a ring would be. Maybe he just doesn't wear a ring? No, he has a ring on his other hand, from university. His mustache is uneven, but no one has told him that, conclusion, no wife.”

“And the part about him being single?”

“His cologne.” Sherlock said simply. He was faced with silence and a blank look. “Wild Wild West. The American cologne. Wild Wild West for your wild wild best, marketed to young single men.”

John looked at him. “Amazing,” he said.

Sherlock turned quickly to look at him. “What did you say?” A familiar pang passed through his mind quickly, but vanished instantly. It was like a dream that disappears in the morning. The harder he fought to hang onto it, the quicker it escaped. But there was something about what John said that was familiar, that tickled his memory.

“Oh, nothing.” John was surprised. Usually Sherlock liked to hear him prattle on about how brilliant, extraordinary, amazing, fantastic Sherlock was, but apparently not today. “What about the murderer?”

Sherlock’s mouth slowly rose at the corner. “There isn’t a court in England that would render a guilty verdict.” His grin widened. “Sherlock….” Lestrade nearly growled.

Sherlock chucked, then quietly added “A horse, Lestrade, he was kicked by a horse.” Lestrade stepped back, wiped his face with his palm, and moaned “Jesus.” Then, after a moment, he added “How did he end up here?” “Not my problem.” Sherlock whipped around with a dramatic flair, his coat billowing out behind him, and sauntered off.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon perusing the pile of cold case files piled in the kitchen. He sorted them into three piles, selected the two most promising cases set to work, and set the others files back where they had collected. Engrossing himself in the reports and photos of the two cases, Sherlock studied every document and detail, occasionally verifying a fact on his computer. He sent off a couple of e-mails to Lestrade, one to ask for clarification on a missing persons report, and the other requesting background information on a potential suspect in a series of burglaries.

John sat slouched in his armchair, sunlight streaming through the window creating a kaleidoscope of color, catching up on medical journals that had accumulated. Sherlock watched John, fascinated by him. Out of the corner of his eye, he carefully cataloged every idiosyncrasy of John’s movements, the way he read, then looked up at the ceiling to internalize a portion of text, the way the soles of his bare feet came together on the floor in a slight curl, how he bit his lower lip as he looked at images of radiographs. Sherlock felt like he could watch the man for hours, mesmerized by his mere presence.

Late in the afternoon, while Sherlock wandered around the sitting room playing Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, an e-mail alert sounded. Sherlock placed the violin gently in the case on the sofa, and opened an e-mail message from Lestrade. It only took Sherlock a moment of scanning the document to confirm his suspicion. He knew the identity of the man responsible for several low profile coffee shop burglaries. He also knew, however, that Lestrade would require evidence, solid evidence that would lead to conviction, and that would require, as his brother Mycroft called it, some legwork.

Sherlock would have to find the man and watch him. Discover the man’s patterns, where he went, how he selected targets, if there were any accomplices, how he escaped without anyone seeing him. It may take time before the burglar hit the next coffee shop. If Lestrade had found all of the related cases, the heists were about 2 weeks apart, but ranged from 12 to 26 days. It was only 10 days since the last know coffee shop was hit, but tonight would be a good night to start surveillance.

**

The first night of surveillance yielded absolutely nothing, the man had not left his flat. However, the second night the man emerged from his lair before the sun set. In their sights was a small scrawny man, costumed in a dark waist length jacket and newsboy hat, slowly ambling down an alley, smoking a fag. Keeping out of sight, which was a bit more difficult in the evening light, they followed him several blocks until he came to a quaint little pub with a large wooden door, which he entered. Outside, Sherlock and John kept the front door in view, pretty secure in their mind that he did not know he had been followed, as the sun set and the shadows lengthened. After about 30 minutes, the pair split up, thinking it more inconspicuous than being together. Two hours dragged by before the suspect reemerged. He appeared nonchalant, stopping several times to chat with mates of his, or just to relax and take a drag of his smoke. 

The man, Bob Carruthers, continued along, but as he neared the British Museum, Carruthers suddenly bolted, turning his head and eyeing John and Sherlock directly, and disappeared into the darkness. The streets were mostly devoid of people, the atramentous night swallowing him completely.

Sherlock and John hastily followed, splitting up to intercept the man from two directions. Sherlock ran down an alley, hearing noises just ahead of him that could only be bins toppling. At the spot where the alley reached the next crossroad there was a sudden loud clatter of bins, and expletives were shouted. Sprawled in the crossway was Carruthers, on his knees, hands flat on the ground; he suddenly jumped to his feet, crouched low, his face contorted like a cornered animal. Sherlock skidded to a stop just a John did the same from the crossroad, trapping Carruthers between them.

Carruthers looked from one to the other of them, clearing debating his course of action. He looked down the alley, towards the streetlight in the distance then focused on Sherlock. John saw the glint of steel up the man’s right sleeve. “No!” he shouted as he flung himself, trying to position himself between Carruthers and Sherlock. But the man had already begun to pounce on Sherlock, leaping forward with his arms outstretched. The knife came forward, and struck John as he reached for Carruthers’ arm, struck John first in the forearm, causing John to grunt, then slipped past his jumper and into his abdomen.

Sherlock didn't see the knife hidden in the sleeve from where he was. John doubled over, his breath expelled by the shock of the sudden pain in his abdomen, falling forward and to the ground. His face hit the pavement hard. Carruthers turned and ran, darting into the shadows. Sherlock started after him, but quickly realized that something was wrong. A simple punch, like the one delivered, should not immobilize a trained agent, it may take his breath away, but not for long, and not a blow delivered by such an undersized opponent. Sherlock checked, looked back, and saw that John lay still on the pavement.

“John?” Sherlock said, as he closed the short distance between them. John was in the fetal position, hands gripped against his abdomen, breathing rapidly and with effort. Sherlock crouched down, then noticed a rapidly spreading dark stain on John’s cabled jumper. He slipped off his scarf, balled it up, and pressed it firmly under John’s hands. “John, tell me you are all right.” There was panic in his voice. Beads of sweat formed on John’s forehead, his eyes were glazed; he did not answer. Sherlock kept his hand pressed over Johns, forcing the scarf down into the stain in John’s jumper.

Sherlock didn't understand the sense of alarm he was feeling. He barely knew John, the strange but intriguing agent of Mycroft. He should be chasing after Carruthers, certain of his guilt in the coffee shop robberies, and guilty, of course, in the assault of John. But Sherlock’s feet didn't move. His breathing sped up, his heart raced, and he was momentarily frozen, mortified at the sight of John on the pavement. John moaned, his leg jerked, and that broke the spell that Sherlock was under.

While one hand continued to press on the wound, the other hand slipped into his pocket and retrieved his phone. Sherlock dialed 999 and demanded that an ambulance be sent at once. Then he pushed the button that dialed Lestrade. On the second ring Lestrade answered genially, “Don’t tell me you've gotten into a mess already.” He hadn't expected the reply that Sherlock gave, but after hearing a brief account, indicated he was on his way.

Sherlock wished he could release his hold on John, wished he could stand or pace or track down the ambulance, anything that would allow his body and mind to distance themselves from this man laying helpless in front of him. Comforting someone was alien to him, especially someone he didn't know well, and Sherlock knew he was providing no comfort to John. His eyes kept darting back down to John, not knowing what to say or do or how to touch him. Something inside of him told him that he should be providing comfort; he did not understand that.

Sherlock’s eyes moved to the pavement next to John. Blood had soaked through the wadded up scarf, covered Sherlock’s hands, and pooled on the ground. John was shivering, so Sherlock slipped out of his coat and laid it over John. That was something at least.

It only took a few minutes before the head lights of the ambulance were blinding Sherlock, and he waved his free arm to catch the driver’s attention. Lestrade’s car screeched to a stop behind the ambulance, scattering loose pebbles from the pavement in front of it.

The paramedics jumped out of the cab, stopped at the rear of the ambulance, gathered two medical cases, and sprinted to John. Relieved, Sherlock rocked back on his heals and rose, sliding out of their way, his hands sticky with John’s blood. The paramedics tried to speak to John. Although he was moving and reacting to their touch, he was not replying. 

One paramedic assessed his breathing, watching the depth and speed of his breaths, the pattern of inspiration and expiration, whether he was breathing from his chest or from his abdomen. John’s breathing was rapid but not compromised. He rolled John on his back, and lifted up his jumper to assess the source of blood. It was large for a stab wound, a tear rather than a simple stab. There was a significant amount of blood, continuing to seep even when pressure was applied, and there was some protrusion of tissue with each expiration. Working like one unit, the two paramedics cut his clothing off of him, placed pressure back on the wound, and wrapped a bandage around his abdomen to hold the wrap in place. The wound continued to bleed despite pressure; an increased sense of urgency propelled their movements.

Without speaking to each other, one paramedic ran for a gurney while the other opened the medical case, and extracted a blood pressure cuff. Wrapping the cuff around John’s bicep, he inflated the cuff and took the measurement, counting the heart rate after the cuff deflated. “He’s in shock,” the one shouted to the other.

The other paramedic returned with the gurney. They needed to treat the shock immediately. One man concentrated on each arm, extending the elbow, pulling the skin taught, then expertly inserting a needle with a catheter into the brachial vein, so that 2 IVs were placed simultaneously. The catheters were taped in place, IV lines connected, bags of fluids were attached and the flow of the fluid started. 

The paramedics then worked in concert, hefting John onto the gurney. They raised the gurney to waist height, and rapidly guided the gurney back to the ambulance. One man jumped in back to continue to attend to John, the other secured the rear door, and hopped in the front to drive.

Lestrade was surprised that Sherlock was not fighting to ride in the ambulance. Normally Sherlock, or rather who Sherlock was before he was wacked on the head, would have insisted on staying by John’s side, fighting anyone who would get in his way, and not taking “no” for an answer. The Sherlock of today, however, did not have the same emotional attachment to the injured man, or at least, he did not realize that he did.

“Sherlock, what happened? Are you OK?” Lestrade was eyeing Sherlock’s blood soaked hands. “Your blood?” Sherlock shook his head. Striding the few paces back to the blood stained pavement, the consulting detective lifted his coat off the ground, and draped it over his arm. Lestrade just watched as Sherlock moved to the dark sedan and sat within. Sighing, Lestrade pulled a flannel out of the boot. “Here, at least wipe you hands off.” He said, as he folded himself into the drivers seat.

As the ambulance drove away, the attendant in the back of the vehicle called in to St. Barts A & E. “We are in transit with a patient, penetrating stab wound to the abdomen with active bleeding, b.p. 90 over 50, heart rate 105. 2 IVs placed, running D5W and normal saline. Please advise.” The attendant on the other end relayed the information and replied with orders.

The two men in the dark sedan followed close behind the ambulance. “Sherlock, I’ll need to take a statement about what happened.” Sherlock looked at Lestrade, somewhat lost, still not certain what he was feeling or why; still not admitting to himself that he was actually feeling something. “Of course.” He replied absently. Lestrade continued to talk as he drove, but Sherlock didn't hear a word of it. He was replaying the events of the past quarter hour in his head, winding and rewinding, pausing and playing in slow motion the attack, and how John had responded.

John had seen the knife, he was certain of it. The tone of his voice, the desperation in that single word no that he shouted, the way he reached for the suspect’s arm all indicated that John was intensely aware of the danger they were in. Yet, without hesitation, he threw himself in front of the weapon, made him self into a human shield. Sherlock may have convinced himself that it was all part of John’s job, to protect Sherlock. Except for the agony in John’s voice. That was inconsistent. Not just fear, or anger, or a cry of possible failure to protect, not like an inadequate employee who had blundered an assignment. Not the cry of a highly trained agent or handler. Something more.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he had got it wrong. John was not a handler. Looking back, it became obvious to him. A handler, even one selected and trained by Mycroft, would not make a joke about Sherlock kissing him, as John had. He wouldn't allow Sherlock to humiliate him, take advantage of him, or what ever the perception the recipient of an inappropriate kiss would consider it to be. At the very least the agent would report back to Mycroft Sherlock’s unacceptable behavior, and Sherlock would hear about it (another brother to brother talk). Mycroft wouldn't risk having a trained agent quit because his little brother was behaving inappropriately and kissing him. Mycroft understood the value of a good employee, and as much of a prat as he was, he would not risk Sherlock’s life by either allowing his agents to tolerate Sherlock kissing them, or by supplying a subpar handler (one who would allow a kiss). No, his reasoning was flawed, John was not a handler employed by Mycroft. He would have seen it sooner if his thinking had been clearer. Sherlock would blame the blow to his head as the cause of the unclear thinking. Certainly, he told himself, his thinking was not compromised by emotion or sentiment.

Sherlock’s musings were interrupted as Lestrade’s car screeched to a stop behind the ambulance at St. Barts. The rear doors of the ambulance burst open, and John was hurried in to the waiting staff. Sherlock sat frozen in Lestrade’s car, until Greg nudged him into motion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have been saying and doing things that I hadn't expected, so the story isn't exactly as I planned it. But I hope you are enjoying it!

Although sleep seldom came easily to Sherlock when he was on a case, when one was solved, he quickly became overcome with exhaustion. This time was no exception. Sprawled out over a row of chairs in the waiting room of St Barts lay Sherlock, his great coat wrapped around him, one leg toppled over the side of the chair, heel resting on the floor. He had given his statement and answered all of Lestrade’s questions about the stabbing and the cold case he had been investigating before settling into the chairs. Although Lestrade had lots of work to do to close the cases, Sherlock’s role in them was complete, so they ceased to be of any interest, hence the dormancy which overtook his body.

A petite blond nurse, fairly new to the profession, still perky and unaffected by the ornery and antagonistic patients and visitors that were common to hospitals, placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently rubbed. “Mr. Holmes….Mr. Holmes….You can come into Dr. Watson’s room if you like.” She had recognized the pair, recognized them due to their repeat visits as patients and investigators, and from their photos in news feeds. Sherlock stirred, glared at her, then registered her words.

Sliding his other foot to the floor, and righting himself, he grunted as a reply. “Room 314.” She finished. Technically she shouldn't be giving out this information or letting him into the room, but she was still idealistic and naïve of the consequences of riling the wrong administrator.

Sherlock rose, followed the number system of the rooms, and peered into 314. At first he didn't recognize the figure in the bed; he thought the nurse may have given him the wrong room number. But his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and he focused on the face that now appeared 10 years younger than last he saw. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto John’s face, and he glided into the room.

John was connected to an IV line, sleep aided by morphine and the residual effects of the anesthesia necessary for the 2 hour surgery to repair his wounds. The muscles of his face were relaxed, the lines of his forehead and around his eyes were smoothed. There was some stubble below his chin, just enough to make a soft scratching sound as a finger was strummed over it, gently thinning as it ran towards his ears. His breath was deep and relaxed, as a soft beeping of the cardiac monitor provided a comforting tempo in the silence of the room.

Sherlock carefully grazed John’s cheek with the back of his hand, contrasting the softness of the skin next to John’s eyes with the prickle of his five o’clock shadow. The face was not entirely familiar, but it somehow filled Sherlock with a sense of calm and security. Here was the man that was such an enigma to him, a puzzle that he thought he had solved. But now Sherlock knew he hadn’t solved the mystery. A man who did not flinch when Sherlock kissed him, made a joke about it in fact, who was indignant when dismissed from examining a corpse, but quickly forgave, who was a trained soldier and medical mad, who returned without hesitation from Ireland when Sherlock was injured, who threw himself in front of the danger that faced Sherlock, and ended up here, at St Barts, in an opiod induced respite. Sherlock felt drawn to this man in a way he hadn't ever felt before. John’s cheek rested in Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock felt himself drawing closer to the face with his.

A squeak of shoes in the doorway interrupted his thoughts. “Oh…” A husky woman in her early forties with spiked mousy colored hair and a waist length bay coat hesitated momentarily, then briskly walked to John’s bedside. Without looking up she continued. “You are Sherlock Holmes… I recognize you.” 

Sherlock noticed the resemblance to John; they had the same eyes and nose, although the woman had a sturdier build and a wider mouth than John, not old enough to be his mother, but definitely a relative. “And you are his sister.” Sherlock said. She did not reply. He continued, “You are an artist, oils, and have one, no two, cats. You haven’t seen him in a while, maybe because he doesn't approve of your drinking, or of your recent divorce. You don’t live close by, so you must have been visiting someone in London when you were contacted by the hospital, listed as next of kin in John’s medical chart.” She merely sneered. “It’s not so impressive when John has told you all of that.”

Sherlock just glared. He did not want to contradict her, because that would mean admitting that he did not remember John, or much of what has happened to him in the recent past. As much as he liked to show off his deductions, he kept quiet.

“Harry.” She reminded him. “My name is Harry”

Images shot through Sherlock’s mind, an inscribed cell phone, a ride in a cab, John beside him, Harry’s short for Harriet. Just two brief still shots, and a sound byte. But it was something. He had remembered something. He struggled to grab onto something more, but no other images materialized.

Sherlock retreated from John’s side, and sat in the padded arm chair in the corner of the room, pulling his feet onto the seat of the chair and drawing his knees close to his face. He watched as Harry silently studied her brother, her posture oddly isolating herself from John. She reached out and patted John’s hand with hers as if he were a dog. She didn't say a word until she looked anxiously at her watch for the third time and said awkwardly “I can’t stay any longer. Tell John I stopped by.” She left without looking back, having been there only a quarter of an hour.

Sherlock didn't like her. Although he didn't get on with his own brother, Mycroft, he resented that she clearly had little affection for her younger brother. It was an odd sensation, being indignant on behalf of someone else. That wasn't something that Sherlock did. He didn't care what other people thought, didn't care about other people’s relationships. That was sentiment, which he certainly didn't do. Mycroft had taught him that caring was not an advantage, and despite his differences with Mycroft, it was something that he had believed.

But there was something about John. Something different. Something that made him care. He didn't understand it. Mostly because he would not admit to himself that he would care, could care, for someone else in an unselfish way. Sherlock struggled to find another explanation for what he felt, but he couldn't. It became part of the mystery of John.

**

Sherlock didn't go back to Baker Street that night. The pretty nurse that woke him in the waiting room brought him coffee, and wasn't put off by Sherlock’s rude dismissal of her. He slept for a few hours, but the nurses and attendants who invaded the room every few hours to check John’s vitals kept him from a restful slumber. John had been in hospital for 36 hours already, and Sherlock had remained close by.

Sherlock was contemplating his usefulness in remaining at St Barts when a thin attractive doctor with long hair pulled back into a plait stopped in to see John. She was clearly not a doctor at St Barts, but she was a medical professional, and had a name tag with “Dr. Sarah Sawyer” pinned to her top. She picked up John’s chart decisively and read through the notes, her brow furrowing several times. Just then she noticed Sherlock curled up in “his” chair. “Oh, hi Sherlock.” Clearly she wasn’t thrilled to see him. She slid next to John, picked up his hand, and disregarded Sherlock’s presence completely. Slowly leaning over John, she placed a soft kiss on his forehead and gently uttered his name, squeezing his hand as she did so.

“John…John….can you hear me?” She waited for a response. None came. She patted his hand in hers, and spoke a bit louder. “John…It’s time to wake up. It’s morning. And you need to wake up.” She looked at Sherlock. “Has he been awake at all?” Without meaning to, Sherlock shook his head. She focused her attention back at the man in the bed, picking up his hand with one hand, and slowly stroking his hair with the other. She leaned over and kissed his chastely on the lips. “John...”

John’s head moved slightly from side to side, his eyes heavy, but opening slightly. Sarah smiled at him encouragingly, twining her fingers into his and continuing to caress the top of his head. “Hi sweetie…” Sarah cooed. John’s lips turned up slightly on both sides. He groaned something incomprehensibly. She kissed him again on the lips and looked pointedly at Sherlock, the look in her eye clearly saying he’s mine. Sherlock looked away.

John started to move his elbows down to the bed to help raise himself up, but Sarah placed a hand on his chest. “Whoa, John, relax. Just lay still. You've been stabbed. You need to lie still and heal.” John exhaled loudly, exhausted with the effort to sit up, weak from the wound, surgery and pain killer, and took a deep breath. “You’re at Barts,” she continued. “You need to rest. If you are in pain, let someone know, they can give you more morphine.” John’s eyes slowly closed again. She smiled at him. “I need to go to work, but I’ll be back later.” She returned his hand to his side. Looking at Sherlock she showed her teeth, but the smile did not extend to her eyes. Sarah left the room, the beeping of the cardiac monitor filling the empty space in Sherlock’s thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s human nature to want something when you think you are going to lose it. Sherlock spent the next 2 days at Barts replaying in his mind Sarah Sawyer’s kisses and possessive grin, actions that said John belonged to her. There was the implied meaning that Sherlock’s affections to John were a threat, a threat that Sarah took seriously, that there was some choice John had to make between Sarah and Sherlock. And that meant there was a choice, there was an interest that John had in Sherlock.

Sherlock was interested, intrigued, drawn to John. His subconscious mind had known that, and had hinted such to his amnesia clouded conscious mind. Sherlock shook in frustration that he could not remember.

During the past 2 days, as John was weaning himself off the morphine (John resisted the temptation of self medication by the morphine button he was given), several visitors had stopped by his room to raise John’s spirits. Sherlock had hijacked the padded armchair as his own, and rarely left the room. Especially not when Sarah stopped by. Sherlock noticed John’s sidelong glances towards Sherlock when Sarah was there, and John showed some discomfort by her close proximity to him. Perhaps her affection was more 1 sided than she tried to insinuate. Sherlock cataloged that thought, and watched for more data.

Besides the small stuffed bear that Sarah had presented to John (Sherlock wondered why John would want a stuffed bear?), there was a collection of 4 mylar balloons with Get Well on one side, and a smiley face on the other side that Molly Hooper delivered the day before, a white vase of daffodils with while perianth and orange corona carried in by Mrs. Hudson, and several cards brought in by various friends and colleagues of Johns. It was apparent to Sherlock that John was well liked by people who knew him, which made Sherlock question why John would bother to associate with him.

**

That afternoon, Mrs. Hudson stopped by to visit as she had been doing every day. “Hello boys. How are you feeling today?” She was looking primarily at John. 

“Erh, as good” he cringed as he finished the sentence “as can be expected.” What a ridiculous and cliché thing to say, he chided himself

She smiled affectionately at him. “You’ll be home soon, dear.” Said Mrs. Hudson, the eternal optimist. As she did every day, she started updating John on the local gossip, about Mrs. Turner’s grandson, the one who nicked the candy from Tescos, about Mrs. Hudson’s niece, who was seeing the married bloke, about people Sherlock had never heard of, and frankly, did not want to hear about. Fortunately for Sherlock, there was an interruption, her voice had been getting monotonous and his eyes were getting heavy.

A burly young physical therapist with a shaved head and goatee sauntered into the room. “Time to get up, Dr. Watson.” John nodded at the man and looked over at the elderly landlord “Would you take Sherlock down to get something to eat in the cafeteria?” John knew that Sherlock would not eat on his own left to his own devices.

“John, I don’t need her to take me anywhere,” came Sherlock’s curt reply.

“When is the last time you ate?”

“Eating is dull.”

“Sherlock, when did you eat last?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters. When did you eat last?”

“What day is today?”

“Jesus Sherlock, Its Wednesday. Mrs. Hudson….”

“Sherlock, dear, just humor an old lady and come and get something to eat. My treat.” Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he slowly unfolded himself from the armchair. Mrs. Hudson meant well, and, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud, she was like a mother to him, and he was quite fond of her. He could order something and pretend to eat a bit of it.

As Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson exited the space that was John’s temporary prison, John swung his legs off the side of the bed, and used his arms to push his body into a sitting position. The physical therapist was besides him, making sure he did not use too much of his abdominal muscles to raise himself. It would do John no good to rip his stitches out. Sliding his bum off the edge of the bed, John straightened himself on the floor, and reached out to grab the IV pole. The hospital gown gaped a bit in the back, but there was no one there to notice. The 2 men started a short walk through the ward.

In the cafeteria, which had an olfactory interfusion of lemon, basil and thyme, Sherlock got himself a cup of coffee and some crisps. Mrs. Hudson objected to his selection, but Sherlock simply waved away her concerns. They seated themselves in a booth in the corner of the second floor eatery, Sherlock with his back to the wall as was his custom. His gaze swept across the room as he deduced the marital status of two doctors and a nurse (single with a girlfriend, happily married and divorced but seeing a woman), and the occupations of a couple of visitors (a plumber and some type of office worker, judging by the way she curved her right index finger).

Absentmindedly, Sherlock tore open the bag of crisps, then left it open without removing any morsels. Mrs. Hudson sat watching, a smile starting to form on her lips. “Oh dear, you have got it bad. He’s going to be alright you know.” Her grin was growing, threatening to turn into a chuckle. Sherlock looked at her, but refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead he tried for his best I don’t know what you’re talking about expression, but failed miserably.

He liked Mrs. Hudson. In her he discovered the motherly figure of story books. The apron-wearing pastry-baking jovial confidant who would solve all the world’s problems, or at least have an astute observation that would make everything more clear. That was the Mrs. Hudson he loved best. He knew about her past of course, the one involving Mycroft and all the associated covert activities. He also understood that he could never know the details of that part of her persona.

She reached forward and patted his hand with hers. He avoided her eyes, instead he examined the steam gently drifting up from his coffee. “My brother, Alistair, he was a few years older than me, he worked for the government. Mind you, nothing like what I did, he was a numbers man. Terribly dull, working with numbers all day, but he loved it.” She stopped and wetted her lips with a sip of tea. Sherlock looked at her. She never spoke of her brother before.

“He would go to the office, work all day, then come home and continue to work. Poor thing, never had a social life to speak of. That’s the way he wanted it.” There was a clink of flatware from a table near by, and although Mrs. Hudson looked up briefly, her eyes were still eons away.

“This was way before computers, you know, so when something didn’t add up properly, he’d spend day and night tracking it down until he found it. And he would find it. It was a challenge to him. He took pride in his work, in doing it right, in being the best at what he did.” She looked pointedly at Sherlock. “He was the best, and that made him happy. But I can’t help but think he was missing out on something, something more.” She took a breath and sighed. “When he passed, he was alone. There was no one, no one except me and our sister, to mourn him. There was his work, of course, but that was it. He had been married to his work, but that left him alone.”

All at once, images began pouring into Sherlock’s brain. The floodgates had opened. I consider myself married to my work. Sitting at Angelos, John, chases, cases, Moriarty, John’s girlfriends and how Sherlock managed to sabotage them, Chinese circuses, Donovan and Anderson. All the memories that had disappeared with that one event, all of them came crashing through in one colossal tsunami. Sherlock’s heartbeat raced, his eyes dilated, and his breath sped up.

He could hear all the conversations: Not really my area; We’re not a couple. Yes you are; That’s brilliant; A bit not good; This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?; Welcome to London; burn the heart out of you!

For a moment, Sherlock wanted to be alone, wanted absolute peace and quiet, wanted to reorder his mind palace, to make sure all his memories were back in their proper places. But he couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't admonish her for just giving him the key to his recollections. For that he was thankful. He inhaled deeply, and slowly let his breath escape.

“Dear, I know it is none of my business, but I see how the two of you look at each other.” She let the thought hang in the air. More phrases penetrated his psyche I’m not his date; Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay; We’re not a couple. John’s voice echoed again and again in his mind, denying over and over his affection for Sherlock.

Sherlock’s heart deflated at the sudden recollections. John had denied, at every opportunity, and to anyone who would listen, the possibility of a relationship with Sherlock. At one point he had even denied that they were friends, instead insisting (to that twit Sebastian Wilkes, of all people) that they were colleagues.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had just pretended that he didn't hear any such comment or implication regarding John. He didn't have the strength to deny his feelings, instead, he choose to ignore any suggestion of the fact.

Sherlock’s eyes weren't actually focusing on anything, just peering out somewhere near the window. “John has made it abundantly clear that a relationship with me is not what he desires.” He was trying not to let any sign of emotion into his voice, to keep it as factual as he could. Mrs. Hudson did not reply, she just patted his hand again.

**

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock found their way back to John’s room in silence. John was back from his walk, and smiled as they scanned for him through the doorway. Mrs. Hudson tottered to the bedside and fussed over the sheets, smoothing them and tucking John in as if he were a schoolboy. Sherlock stood just in the doorway regarding John.

John saw the depth of Sherlock’s eyes, not exactly focused on him, but clearly concentrating on some pondering. “A case?” He inquired. Sherlock shook his head, advancing into the room, then looked away. He could not hold John’s gaze, not while he sorted out his new perspective on John. He needed time to reorder his thoughts.

“ I've already told you Sherlock that you don’t have to stay here with me. You are bored. Hell, I’m bored. But they are going to keep me a few more days, until they are sure I’m not going to burst back open or spring an infection.” Sherlock was not looking at him. John looked towards Mrs. Hudson with a look of desperation. He did not want Sherlock to remind him for the next few weeks how bored he had been while John was in hospital. “Can you text Lestrade for a case?”

Sherlock scrunched up his face. Mrs. Hudson winked at John. “I have something that I need some help with.” John looked at the old lady. Dear thing, what could she need his help with, he wondered. Has she lost her favorite necklace again, or gotten a package without a return address?

Sherlock looked interested. At least it was something to do, something to distract him from the empty feeling of being rejected by John. And something in Mrs. Hudson’s voice hinted at the unusual. She was not unintelligent, a little rambling sometimes, but logical and methodical. “Very well,” he said “let’s hear the details.”


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs. Hudson had insisted on waiting until later to give Sherlock all the details. She had insisted on not burdening John with her problems, of just visiting for a few minutes, then letting John rest. He was, after all, still healing from his stabbing, and, even though John wasn't using the self administered morphine pump, he was groggy from other pain killers and the effort of healing.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson shared a cab ride home, then she invited him into her flat for some tea. Mrs. Hudson was crafty, and knew that making Sherlock wait for the details just fueled his hunger for the puzzle. She never flaunted it, but she knew how to manipulate people with the best of them. She didn't do it often anymore, as that was a remnant of her life as an agent.

Sherlock looked expectantly at her after she poured tea and placed a plate of scones on the table. He was patient, but the tapping of his fingers on his leg gave away his growing interest.

“You see,” said Mrs. Hudson, not certain where to start, “It’s my nephew, Ian. He’s my sister’s son, you know, my sister who married the bank manager and, well, em, I think he’s gotten himself in with a bad lot.” Sherlock wondered to himself how long it would be until Mrs. Hudson got to the root of the problem. “He’s seeing a new boy. Well, he’s not really a boy, he’s Ian’s age, but I always think of them as boys. I remember one time,” Sherlock interrupted her by clearing his throat. “Oh, right, well, I think this boy, Peter is his name, is up to no good. She started fiddling with her tea cup.

“Mrs. Hudson, can we get to the concern?” Sherlock smiled at her, trying not to let his irritation show. He liked Mrs. Hudson, loved her maybe, but that didn't mean that she didn't irritate him at times.

“Oh dear. I’m not exactly sure how to say this. But this boy, Peter, has been asking Ian for personal information, credit card information, bank accounts, and it doesn't sound right to me. I mean, they are a couple, but they are not that close, I don’t think. Not to where they are sharing bank accounts or a flat or anything. And I get the feeling that this Peter runs around a lot, if you know what I mean.” Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile.

“Let me see if I can summarize a bit…your nephew Ian is seeing a man, Peter, and you are concerned about identity theft, especially since this Peter is not the type to commit.” He said the last word with a bit of emphasis. Mrs. Hudson sighed loudly. “That’s it, exactly.” She beamed at him. “You always know exactly what I mean!”

Sherlock smiled. He always enjoyed compliments, especially ones from people he knew, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He claimed that people’s opinions meant nothing to him, but Mrs. Hudson and John knew better.

“It shouldn't be difficult.” He stopped a moment to think about it. “I could invite them over for tea, if that would help,” interjected Mrs. Hudson, “and introduce you.” Sherlock started to smile, a plan forming in his mind. “That would do quite well. But I don’t want you to introduce me as Sherlock Holmes. There is just a chance that he has heard of me. Have them over on Saturday, around half two, and I’ll stop by unexpectedly.” He smiled as he said the last word.

**  
Sherlock had done some research into Peter’s background, but found little of interest. There were some outstanding loans, some erratic bank deposits, but nothing that would be considered criminal. Mycroft had provided Sherlock with a false ID, and credit cards to ensnare Peter with. It would be easy to prove that Peter stole his identity if it was created just for that purpose and had never before existed.

On Saturday, John was still not able to come home, and Sherlock, alias James Sigerson, wandered down to 221A around quarter to three, and “happened” to stop by Mrs. Hudson’s flat. There he met Ian, round faced with short curly hair and an athletic build, and Peter, taller, with an aquiline nose, thin lips and penetrating eyes, dressed causally in jeans and a hoodie. Sherlock slipped into character, and talked easily with the two men, who were slightly younger than he was. Sherlock paid special attention to Peter, smiling shyly at him, and slipped him his phone number before leaving. If Peter was, as Mrs. Hudson hinted, friendly with many men, he would call “James”. Sherlock had given all the signals of being available and interested.

John returned home later that evening, having been discharged by his doctor, relieved to be back at 221 and away from the demands of night time vitals checks and forced rest. John looked around the flat, and loudly asked “Sherlock?” He heard no response, so he padded down the short hall to the open bedroom door and peered in, in case Sherlock had decided to actually sleep in his room. Sherlock was no where to be found. Seating himself in his armchair, and grabbing the newspaper that had been left on the table, John stayed up until near midnight before making his way up the extra set of stairs to his own room.

The following morning, John rose around 10 a.m. He showered, put on his favorite jeans and plaid button down shirt with a cardigan, and tromped down the stairs. He did a cursory check of the apartment again, calling for Sherlock, but Sherlock had come and gone already. There was a dirty mug on the counter from tea, and his laptop had been left open. Other than that things were as they had been left the night before. John opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom to make sure he wasn't asleep, but the flat was empty. John sat down and updated his blog, his own stabbing being a pretty exciting addition to his stories, and, after turning on the telly, slept part of the afternoon on the sofa. He took a walk in the evening, ambling down to Regent Park, stopping in the park to watch three teenagers playing ball.

On the way home, John wondered what Sherlock was up to. He pulled out his phone, and typed out a quick question.

When will you be home?

John waited about a minute, and when no reply came back, he shrugged and continued walking back towards Baker Street. He suspected that Sherlock was on a case, but he wasn’t entirely certain. Sherlock had been acting oddly since, now that he thought about it, since he had returned from Dublin and his medical conference. John couldn't exactly pin point what Sherlock had done that was odd, it was just a feeling that John had, that things were off. He never asked about it, assuming that it was due to Sherlock being clubbed over the head, but doubt now surfaced in John’s mind.

John now realized how quiet Sherlock had been the whole time John was in hospital. Usually Sherlock would prattle on about cases that he had, or an experiment, or even how incompetent the met was. But Sherlock instead had remained quite reserved, folded in the armchair, not even deducing the nurses or challenging the doctors, or torturing visitors with compromising deductions.

Had this strange behavior started before the medical conference?

John was about 1 block from the flat, across Baker Street, when he saw 2 figures stop at the entrance to 221. John recognized one by the great coat the man wore, but did not know who the second man was. Both figures stopped in front of the door, when to John’s surprise, the second man cornered Sherlock with his arm, and leaned forward in what could only be a very prolonged and possessive kiss. John stopped in his tracks, shocked at what he was witnessing. Not in his wildest dreams did the idea that Sherlock may have a boyfriend come into his thoughts as to why Sherlock had been acting strange. John took a deep breath, and looked away for a moment, not sure what to do. As he looked back to the doorstep, the figures disappeared inside.

Damn it, John said to himself. He didn't want to go back to the flat now, not after seeing the body language of the two men outside the flat. He didn't want to have to smile and meet Sherlock’s, what(?) his lover? Then have to hide upstairs and pretend that he didn't hear sounds coming from the sitting room or Sherlock’s bedroom. That had never happened before, and John hadn't really even considered it as something that was likely to happen. Not from Sherlock. John considered going to Greg’s, or to a bar, but in the end decided that he didn't want to be driven from his own home by someone else, so he slowly strolled down Baker Street. Maybe they would be in Sherlock’s room by the time he got up there and he wouldn't have to see them.

As if in answer to his thoughts, a dark sedan with tinted windows pulled up next to John and stopped. Christ, not again, John thought to himself, but he stopped and waited for the rear door to open. Mycroft Holmes and his PA, Anthea, sat inside. John sighed loudly, hesitated for a moment, and then figuring he would just get it over with, joined the two in the back.

“Good evening John,” Mycroft said, his voice teeming with refinement. John nodded at him. The car started rolling. Anthea, as per usual, had her eyes glued to her phone and was texting. “What do you want, Mycroft, you could have called.”

“Manners, John.” Mycroft paused. “I thought you’d like to know that a certain Bob Carruthers has disappeared from police custody. I doubt that he will be seen again.” The car slowed, and took a turn, then sped up again. John had no idea where they were going.

John looked at Mycroft. “Jesus Mycroft, I didn't need to know that. Is that what happens when someone crosses your path?” He put his hand over his eyes and wiped downward, not really wanting Mycroft to answer that question. It was rhetorical, surely Mycroft would understand that.

Mycroft gazed at him. “I don’t know what you mean John. It’s just a statement of fact. Nothing more.” Mycroft’s eyes stayed on John, likely deducing what John was thinking, what dreams he had the night before, or what he was likely to do in the next week. It made John uncomfortable, but he tried not to show it.

“Right. Okay.” But John knew better. He wasn't sure why Mycroft felt the sudden urge to tell him this right now, to remind John how powerful he was, not to mess with a Holmes. Ah, John thought, so that is it. This is a message about what happens when someone interferes with a Holmes. John wasn't sure if he should say something more or not. But John was not the type of man to scare easily, to not say what was on his mind, so he continued, a thought suddenly popping into his mind. “Is this about Sherlock’s new, em, …”

Mycroft sighed loudly. “I would not presume to meddle in the…interests… of my brother. What ever new…associations….my brother has developed are strictly his… affair.” John was confused by what he was hearing. Mycroft always meddled in his brother’s affairs. The car bounced over a rough spot in the pavement, which caused Anthea to look up momentarily.

“Sherlock’s business is his own… and I’m sure you’ll agree to let him decide how to achieve his own happiness.” Mycroft gave his patented insincere grin. John was gobsmacked. He was being warned off by Mycroft Holmes. He was being told to mind his own business, not to interfere with Sherlock’s new interest.

“Right. We’re done here.” John reached for the door handle. “As you wish, John…Would you prefer a ride back to Baker Street?” John looked at Mycroft. “No, stop right here. I don’t want anything from you.” Mycroft smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He knocked on the patrician, and the driver pulled over. “Good night, John.” “Piss off, Mycroft.”

Once on the pavement John looked around. He did not want to return to Baker Street. The thought of Sherlock in the flat with someone else chewed at him. It doesn't matter, he told himself, but he knew it was a lie. He came face to face with the realization that he was jealous, that at some point, he had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know when or how it happened, just that right now, at this moment, he was hopelessly miserable.

Gathering his bearings, John texted his friend Mike Stamford. 

Care for a pint, my treat?

The response came quickly

Where?

The usual place, 15 minutes.

Right.

John started walking, knowing that it would only take him 10 minutes to reach the pub, grateful for the extra few minutes to collect his thoughts. Mike was a good friend, but he didn't have to know everything, especially things John was just figuring out himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost put everything into chapter 8, but decided it should be an epilogue instead. So there will be one more chapter.

John awoke the next morning, on Mike’s sofa, his mouth full of cotton and stale beer. His clothes smelled like beer and old body odor, and his shoes, still on his feet, were sticky on the bottoms. Mikes sofa had not been comfortable, but it was better than the floor, and it had saved him from having to return to Baker Street the previous night. He was grateful his hangover was minimal; no nausea and only a minor pounding in his head. Some paracetamol and water would do wonders.

After some exploration through the cupboards, John extracted a glass, filled it from the tap, popped the lid off a small bottle, and shook out some tablets. Downing the dose in one swallow, followed by the entire contents of the glass, he resisted the urge to raid the refrigerator. Instead, he left a brief note on the table, and quietly slipped through the front door and into the mid-morning gloom. It was a fair walk back to Baker Street, but John was in no hurry. His gut ached at the thought of whom or what he would find there.

He wondered when it was that he fell for Sherlock. He had always been fond of the man, amazed by the brilliance that one person could show. Sherlock was mesmerizing, the way observations and deductions came together effortlessly, with only so much as a glance around him. At some point, John realized, the social awkwardness and petulant actions of his friend had become endearing to him. Odd, that was. Surely that should have been an indication that his feelings had changed, that he was accepting Sherlock for who he was rather than trying to change him. Wasn't that was love was after all?

There, he had said it, if only in his own mind. He loved Sherlock. Something in his gut, deep down, fluttered. But it may be too late. Sherlock had never reacted when anyone made innuendos or suggested they were a couple. Sherlock simply did nothing, like he hadn't heard, or he didn't understand. He was like a naive child who missed a joke, and just went happily along, blissfully unaware. Perhaps that had given John a sense of security, of timelessness, of an eternal friendship that would never leave him. What if John hadn't rejected the suggestion that they were a couple? What if John had let Sherlock know that a relationship with him, John, was okay? Would they be together now? John couldn't help but wonder if it was too late now.

**

Clothed only in his pajama bottoms and blue silk dressing gown, Sherlock closed the lid of his laptop. The case involving Ian and Peter was complete. Sherlock had heard Mrs. Hudson hovering in the flat below his just moments before. Knowing she was home, he decided to report the results of his inquiry to her immediately.

He took the stairs two at a time and gently tapped on her door.

“Sherlock, dear, come in. Can I get you some tea?” Sherlock accepted. He knew from experience that she would continue to fuss if he didn't. She put the kettle on and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. As she prepared the tea, she continued to talk. Sherlock paid little attention. She was prattling on about Mrs. Turner and her lodgers, and something about pickling spices.

When she put the tea on the table, he interrupted her.

“You asked me to look into Ian’s friend, Peter.” Sherlock could be polite when he wanted to, it just wasn’t very often that he wanted to.

“Oh yes, dear, what did you find out?” Mrs. Hudson looked eager, her hands clasped around her mug as if warming them.

“Very little. He has some small gambling debts, his credit has suffered some because of it. Holding a job for more than a few months is a challenge for him. He overspends on clothing, frequents gay bars to an extreme, eats out a lot, and occasionally bets on horses. He has had a lot of sexual partners.”

“Sherlock!”

“Surely that isn't a surprise to you. After all, you were the one that originally pointed that out to me. He was smiling at her. She blushed. “He may be a bit foolish in his habits and choices, but nothing illegal.”

“Are you sure dear? I mean, did you spend enough time with him to be sure?”

Poor thing, Sherlock thought, she does worry an awful lot about her nephew. Out loud he said, “Ample time.”

She apologized profusely for wasting his time.

**

It was half one before John was once again on Baker Street. He had stopped for a cup of coffee at a local café, and he kept his pace slow, but he couldn't put off returning home much longer. He paused a block away, in the same spot that he had seen Sherlock and that other man the evening before. The image was burned in his mind and he had to look away. Keeping his gaze on the pavement in front of his feet, John strolled along the remaining block to 221.

His key fit easily in the lock, and when he turned it, the door gently opened. John stepped in, but stopped at the stairs. He turned, faced the front door, and lowered himself onto the second step, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. He had been putting this off for 18 hours already, and he still wasn't ready to go up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson’s door opened, and she popped her head out. “Oh, it’s you John. I thought I heard someone.” When he didn't answer, she looked at him. “What is the matter, dear? Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” John accepted gratefully, following her into her flat. He plopped himself down into a chair. His eyes were red with bags underneath, brows furrowed, and his mouth was turned down at the edges. And he smelled like stale beer. She poured 2 mugs of tea, placed one in front of John, and seated herself.

“Oh, it’s that bad then?” She asked. John managed a small smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. Mrs. Hudson, being an astute romantic, guessed what the problem was, and didn't waste any time in getting to the point. “Does he know how you feel?”

John looked across the table at her. He thought of Sherlock’s initial rebuttal of his advances, and subsequent non-reaction to any suggestion of a relationship between the two of them. “He’s not interested.”

She searched his face. “Are you sure, dear? Have you told him?” John huffed. Surely he wasn't having this conversation with Mrs. Hudson. Not that there was anyone he wanted to have this conversation with. “He said he considers himself married to his work.” He said this quietly.

Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea and thought. After a moment she continued, “People don’t always mean what they say, John. I've known Sherlock for a long time. You are good for him, a good influence. He knows that, he must. Everyone else can see it.”

“What do you mean, good influence?”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “You should have seen him before. He was rude, abrupt, abrasive, and impudent.” John laughed at that. “No, that is how he is now.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him. “No, he is nothing like what he was, before you.” She emphasized the last two words. “No one could work with him, no one. Lestrade could barely stand him. He is positively heavenly now. You have softened him, grounded him.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that I have softened him.” John allowed himself a small smile at that. Mrs. Hudson smiled back.

“Just don’t assume you know what he is thinking, or what he wants. Sherlock has a hard time with relationships. He’s not going to easily admit that he has feelings for someone, or even that others care for him.” She looked pointedly at John.

John felt himself redden. “He didn't have any problems showing feelings last night.” He grumbled. Mrs. Hudson appeared not to hear him.

“I don’t want to pry, and it’s none of my business, but I’m going to say it anyways. Tell him how you feel, and don’t let him interrupt you. You are miserable as you are now.” She remained quiet and let the words hang.

John nodded, not agreeing with her, but acknowledging that he heard her. “I’ll think about it.” She smiled at him.

Feeling he could not put it off any longer, John excused himself, and mounted the stairs, not even caring as they squeeked under his weight.

Sherlock, still in his dressing gown and pajama bottoms, was seated at the kitchen table, peering through his microscope at one of the petri plates that he had stacked on the table. He looked up at John, then frowned. “You shouldn't have been out all night with Mike, you’re still healing.” He focused his attention back through the ocular lens.

John just stood there, an internal battle clamoring in his mind. He looked around, searching for a coat, or shoes, or some evidence of another person. He half expected that someone was going to amble out of the bedroom. Not entirely certain he was making the right choice, John nudged forward. “Are you alone?”

Sherlock looked up, his brows furrowed, and he gaped at John. “Of course I’m alone.” His eyes darted back and forth, focusing on nothing in particular, as his thoughts sorted out the question. “Do you see anyone here?” He looked back at the petri dish through the lens.

John huffed, not surprised at Sherlock’s curt response, and not certain what he ought to say next. He stood there, staring at Sherlock’s profile. Rarely was John Watson at a loss for words, but at this moment he had nothing to say. Nothing that seemed adequate to express what he was thinking, what he was feeling. The silence unnerved Sherlock. Sherlock looked over at John, and seeing the look on his face, was immediately concerned.

“John, are you okay?" Sherlock rose from his chair in front of the microscope and glided swiftly across the floor. “What is it? Is it your wound? Are you alright?” The back of Sherlock’s hand was against John’s forehead, his hand reaching for the bandages around his torso. The look of concern on Sherlock’s face was so genuine and so intense. John was overwhelmed with the careful regard that all he could do was wrap his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pull him into a kiss.

Sherlock froze, and for a moment John thought he made a huge mistake.

But then Sherlock started to relax into the embrace and kiss John back, gently at first, but quickly turning passionate and urgent. Sherlock’s arms slid up around John’s waste and rubbed softly up and down. John’s tongue gingerly probed at Sherlock’s lips, teasing gently. Sherlock’s lips parted, inviting John to explore. The tip of John’s tongue pushed forward tentatively, then with more confidence, as it grazed Sherlock’s teeth, his soft palate and gently twirled around Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock gasped. John nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock groaned deep in his chest. The sound was like an aphrodisiac to John, and his hands slipped down Sherlock’s chest, feeling the lean muscles of his chest and waist, and slipping his grip back up Sherlock’s shoulders. John was exploring every curve of Sherlock.

The movement of John’s hands shifted open dressing gown off of Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock pulled John closer, but John’s breath hitched, and Sherlock sprung back momentarily, keenly aware of John’s bandaged wound.

“ ‘s okay,” John grunted, drawing Sherlock’s mouth back to his. Sherlock relaxed back into John, enjoying the kiss, following John’s lead and nipping at John’s lip. Sherlock drew back gently, and gazing into John’s eyes, his hands sliding under John’s jumper, drawing it up and over John’s head. Sherlock’s fingers fumbled at the buttons on John’s shirt, Sherlock chuckling as his fingers failed to achieve their goal. John smiled shyly, and helped Sherlock with the remaining buttons before shrugging out of the shirt.

Sherlock kissed John’s ear, swirling his tongue along John’s neck, and down to his nipple. He playfully grabbed the nipple in his teeth, licked a circle around it, and sucked it, teasing it to a point. John groaned, and his hips lurched forward uncontrollably, rutting against Sherlock. The fingers of John’s right hand were grasping Sherlock’s curls, gently tugging at them, while his other hand smoothed downward towards the elastic of Sherlock’s pajamas.

John stepped back, pulling Sherlock with him, and eased onto the sofa, Sherlock straddling John’s hips, careful of John’s incompletely healed wound. Sherlock chuckled again, recognizing the awkwardness of gymnastics on the sofa with a wounded ex-soldier. “Bedroom?” he asked, and John grinned at him.

Sherlock proffered a hand to John, pulling him to his feet, then leading him into his bedroom, fingers intertwined.


	9. Epilogue

Later that day, down in 221a, Mrs. Hudson and Peter were sipping tea. The young man was transformed, no longer the young laid back hoodie-clad friend of Ian, rather a poised well dressed man with an air of confidence and aplomb.

“Well Agent Hudson, it’s been a pleasure working with you. I was dubious when Mr. Holmes contacted me about this assignment. It seemed a bit, personal, if you know what I mean.” He smiled.

She grinned back. “I imagine it’s not every day that Mycroft Holmes asks you to interfere with his younger brother’s life. He had his reasons though. It’s become quite clear how important Dr. Watson is to Sherlock’s well being, and that the two of them would need some sort of nudge if they were to ever realize it.” She sipped her tea. “Jealousy is a strong motivator. Sherlock has been jealous of Dr. Watson’s girlfriends for ages now, and he clearly sabotaged them, but he never took it any further. So the obvious move was to make Dr. Watson jealous of one of Sherlock’s, em, interests. Then to push him to act.” She giggled, clearly enjoying the role of matchmaker. 

“What I still don’t understand,” the young agent added “is why Mr. Holmes, Mycroft that is, thought this simple scheme would draw the two of them together. It could have just as easily failed.”

“It could have,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. She thought for a moment. “Sherlock had been acting strange, ever since Dr. Watson returned from Dublin. Stranger than usual, that is.” She smiled. “Even Mycroft noticed that something was wrong. He didn’t want Sherlock to revert back to what he was before….back to the drugs, to the temptations of his old associations. Mycroft felt it was time to intervene.” She took a sip of tea to moisten her throat, then continued her musings.

“The key was to interest Sherlock with a puzzle. He would do anything for a case, even apparently,” Mrs. Hudson grinned, “to seduce a suspect. It was just coincidence that Dr. Watson was injured and had to be sidelined for a while. That played right into the plan: tempt Sherlock with a case, one that didn't involve Dr. Watson, but could very easily make John jealous. Then have Mycroft do what he does best, intimidation. John doesn't scare easily. The best way to get him to do something is to tell him he can’t. So Mycroft essentially told him to leave Sherlock alone.”

“But two people aren't going to get together just because someone tells them they can’t.” objected the man.

Mrs. Hudson’s smile broadened. “Oh, Agent Madigan, you just have to look at the two of them to realize they have been in love for a while. They just weren't aware of it themselves.” 

Madigan chuckled. “And Sherlock is supposed to be a genius.” He thought for a moment. “If this works, I imagine Mycroft will be insufferable…”

“No…I don’t think so.” Mrs. Hudson was thoughtful. “ I've known Mycroft for a long time…if there ever were any case files about this assignment, they would have already been destroyed. He would not want anyone to find out what he did; He wouldn't want people to believe, or even have a reason to believe, that he acted out of sentiment, even though that is not why he did it.” Mrs. Hudson had a twinkle in her eye. “No…he did it because John is much better at handling Sherlock than Mycroft ever was. Dr. Watson makes Mycroft’s life much simpler, there is one less thing for him to worry about.”

“Do you think the mission was a success?” There was some characteristic rhythmic banging from the flat above them which could only be one thing, and Madigan blushed.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “I think this will be quite a memorable day for both of them.”


End file.
